


Great Day to be a South Paw

by Beefgoddess



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Concerned Prentiss, Developing Relationship, Drama, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hurt Hotch, Hurt/Comfort, Medical Realism, Poor Hotch, hotch/prentiss
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-28
Updated: 2014-08-16
Packaged: 2018-02-10 19:41:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2037519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beefgoddess/pseuds/Beefgoddess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A routine investigation in Portland, Oregon quickly turns into a disaster. Hotch/Prentiss UST. Hotch/team friendship. Rated T for violence. Takes place after '100.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It’s one of those cases where everything basically falls to pieces from the moment the unit steps off of the federal plane at the Portland, Oregon airport and boards their respective vehicles to begin their tedious investigation. A progressive outbreak of mysterious disappearances involving eleven girls—ranging from 8 to 15 years—have turned up dead, all up and down the West Coast. The first occurring off the Long Beach peninsula in Washington State, one at the border of California and Oregon outside of Crescent City, but most of the girls disappearing from the Columbia Gorge region, right outside the heart of Portland Metropolitan area. They all turn up dead from strangulation after prolonged sexual trauma, exactly five days from when they were taken, all missing the ring finger of their left hands.

They’d leave it to the state Feds over on the West Coast, but they’re left mostly scratching their heads and call Quantico and request the BAU to consult. Cue the plane ride over.

A week flies by as they study CCTV videos on loop, bloody crime scene photos, and ME autopsy reports until the gruesome images begin to leave permanent imprints in their memories. Smiling faces in school pictures haunt them throughout that week, teary parents fill their ears with stories as they try to comprehend the atrocities, and municipal law enforcement posture angrily when they feel that the BAU’s presence is meddling, invasive.

It winds down to a moment—the UNSUB has struck in a neighboring location just off of Highway 26 toward Mount Hood, in a tiny highland town roughly thirty minutes away from Portland. The troupe slinks into Sandy just after midnight and discover the creep’s sister lives two blocks away from the high school, right where the most recent victim has turned up missing. Finding the man is surprisingly easy. He is sliding into his early model gray Corolla just as three black SUVs come screeching to a halt in front of him.

In a heartbeat a terrified girl, alive, is pulled into his arms and he has a subcompact Glock 42 pressed to the back of her skull; it’s a standard police grade service pistol, likely something he had obtained illegally, and they all are fully aware of its armor piercing hollow point bullets. A host of shouting erupts which quickly descends into the sharp report of gunfire.

They are quick to respond, but obviously not quick enough—Reid is winged in his right hip, and just as he begins to fall, Hotch’s left elbow explodes in red after one of the tiny projectiles enters the skin of his forearm and bounces off of bone and muscle.

The UNSUB has been neutralized—he is struck by several rounds before he hits the gravel. Somehow, miraculously, the girl avoids injury. She is on her hands and knees, sobbing her thanks as she crawls, fumbles away from the freshly dead killer.

~*~

Emily feels her stomach drop when she sees two of her men fall to the ground, and though the poor victim has scrambled away from the UNSUB and into JJ's arms, all she can think about is about the prone forms to her right, her colleagues, who are thankfully moving around, but she has yet to know the extent of any bodily harm.

 

She looks over and her throat closes when she sees Reid pressing his hand into his hip, and Hotch clutching a bleeding left arm.

 

Rossi kneels before Reid, but the young genius waves him away.

 

"I'm fine, it's just a glancing blow. The bullet grazed me, but it just brushed the skin a bit. I'll be fine," he mutters, holding his hand over the wound.

 

Emily steps over him as Rossi addresses the younger agent, and she falls to her haunches next to the Supervisory Special Agent, just as JJ collects the traumatized girl and places her in the backseat of one of the SUVs, then barks into her cell phone a somewhat controlled call for police and medical assistance. Morgan is checking the motionless suspect's neck for a pulse. A quick shake of his head confirms the man’s fate.

 

Hotch has his eyes squeezed shut in a tense grimace, and a small groan filters through his tightly closed mouth. Emily pushes on his Kevlar covered chest when the unit chief attempts to sit up. "Hotch, lie still. I need to check you over."

 

His voice has lowered to a pained near-whisper. "Prentiss, it's just my arm, I'm not wounded anywhere else. Help me sit up, please."

Hotch peers down at his left arm--the dominant one--what a day to be a southpaw, he thinks sourly, and his right hand refuses to let go of the open bullet wound. The entry had been at the bottom side of his forearm and must have bounced off the bones and blown out the back of his lower bicep. He knows that it was a hollow point bullet because he had recognized the standard issue Glock from a mile away. He's owned his fair share over the years and currently carries a version of it himself. Hollow points are always a nasty shot, entering the body minimally, shattering upon impact underneath the flesh, then if the unfortunate bastard who takes this bullet is lucky enough, the outcome is gaping, raw, essentially resembling hamburger meat. He’s glad he can’t see the results.

Emily stubbornly holds him in place, her eyes firm but filled with emotion. “Hotch,” she says with a voice trembling slightly. “Even if it is just your arm, we have to minimize blood loss by keeping you still.”

He knows she is right, and he is concerned that one of the major arteries has suffered damage. He’s seen gunshot wounds of extremities go two ways, as well as can be expected with minimal recovery time or horribly wrong with either immediate or eventual amputation. The thought alarms him into compliance.

Emily touches his left arm, pulling it up as gently as she can to view the carnage and tries to ignore his grimace. “Oh, God,” she whispers.

Hotch watches her, tries to suppress the pained moan from surfacing. “What’s it look like?”

She studies the underside of his upper arm, brows furrowed. “Entry and exit wounds. I’m not gonna lie, Hotch, it’s not pretty.”

His fingers clutch the skin which is becoming slick with coppery smelling liquid as it seeps from the entry and exit wounds, and he realizes with certainty that if he does not get to an emergency room quickly, with one of the major vessels affected, he runs the risk of losing too much blood and slipping into hypovolemic shock, potentially dying. He can’t do this to his son. Jack has no one else but him, his grandparents, and Haley’s doting sister, Jessica.

“Check one of the SUVs—see if there’s a first aid kit available,” he murmurs to Emily, meeting her wide, dark eyes with his own. He knows that she is stifling the anxiety she feels to keep him calm, but he studies the human condition for a living, can pinpoint the minute identifiers with practiced ease. He can see it in her expression, the tiny, apprehensive slant of her eyebrows, trembling breath. “It’s okay, Emily,” he says in an uncharacteristic use of her given name.

Rossi is listening in on their exchange and stands once Morgan takes his place next to Reid and fills in to put pressure on his hip. “Stay there, Prentiss. I’ll go look for one.”

Reid motions at them and tucks a stray strand of his curly hair behind an ear. “Hotch, take your tie off. Emily—use it as a tourniquet to isolate the blood flow until the ambulance can replace blood volume with intravenous fluids.”

Hotch nods, but can’t seem to find it in him to let go of his elbow. Emily reaches for his neck, loosens the silk fabric and pulls it over his head carefully, then gently wraps it around his bicep just above the wound, then ties a simple knot and pulls it as tight as possible. His gasp is louder, agonized.

“I’m sorry,” she mutters apologetically. Emily looks up and around for JJ, who’d been speaking to authorities the last she knew. “What’s the ETA for the closest medic?”

The blond woman is nearly imperceptible in the shadows, but from her vantage point, Emily can see that her cell is still pressed to her ear. “Hang on,” she says to the person on the line, then addresses her. “Looks like the closest EMT is about fifteen minutes away.”

Emily feels a sinking sensation in her middle. “How about the closest hospital?”

“Legacy Mount Hood Medical Center. Looks like it’s approximately twenty to thirty minutes from our location with optimum traffic conditions.”

Forty-five minutes total response time for EMTs and the ride to the ER, she thinks, her heart filling with dread.

“He can’t wait,” Emily panics, her hand finding Hotch’s forehead without giving it a second thought. “He’ll bleed out before he gets to the emergency room.” He silently watches her, still completely coherent although understandably subdued, and she stares back unabashedly fearful now.

Morgan shakes his head. “We have to wait for the medics. They can treat him for the blood loss on the scene.”

Emily glances over at the man in exasperation. “He’s already lost enough blood. I say we take him in ourselves.”

“Prentiss, he shouldn’t be moved,” Rossi says as he kneels next to her, armed with a small white box.

“Dave, if we don’t move him now, he could die,” she responds, voice quivering.

Rossi speaks to the unit chief, whose color is beginning to wash out. “What do you think, Aaron? Wait for the medics?”

Hotch can feel the effects of the blood loss with the fuzzy, lightheadedness that has clouded his thoughts. He senses the growing feebleness and knows that his time is limited, especially if he wishes to ever use his left hand properly again. He fears that shock is settling in, the body’s natural response to trauma, as droplets of sweat accumulate at his brow and at the base of his neck despite a fierce chill racing through him.

“Boss-man?” Morgan asks from Reid’s side.

Emily palms his cheek, tapping it lightly. “Aaron,” she shouts nervously. “Come on, stay with us.”

Hotch’s nod is almost undetected. “Yeah, yeah. I’m all right. Let’s move.”

Suddenly, Emily and Rossi are in motion. She runs to one of the SUVs, swings open the rear passenger door as wide as possible, and then clears any obstructions from the seats so that Hotch can lie down completely in the back.

“Morgan,” calls Rossi as he rips open the first aid kit and digs around until he finds an ace bandage and a pad of gauze. Just as he presses the white patch to the exit wound, unwinds the bandage, and begins wrapping it around Hotch’s midsection and arm so that the limb is immobilized, he continues, “stay with Reid until the EMT and responding units arrive. We’ll see you there.”

Emily returns to the men as she wipes her hands on her vest. “Should we carry him?”

Hotch touches her wrist as she reaches for his shoulders. “Help me up—I can walk.”

“Aaron—”

“Prentiss,” he warns sternly, pressing his right palm to the ground to brace himself. “Give me a hand or get out of my way.”

She frowns at the brusque remark, but Rossi raises his eyebrows at her and shakes his head. Not now. “Okay.” She counts to three and the two of them help their unit chief into a sitting position, and allow him to adjust to the change before pulling him up to his feet. He sways slightly, eyes glazed, and he grips Emily’s shoulder as Rossi flanks him on the other side, holding his elbow with caution to keep it stable. “You ready?” she asks.

“Yep.”

The trio moves over to the vehicle and Emily climbs into the back before her boss, and wraps her arm around his shoulder, using her free hand to hold his wounded arm. Rossi hops into the driver’s seat and turns the ignition over, pressing on the accelerator before she has time to reach over and shut her door.


	2. Chapter 2

The drive feels like an eternity to the occupants of the SUV, and Emily keeps playing the scene in her head to comprehend how and why Hotch and Reid had ended up getting hit. Any lapse in safety is always evaluated meticulously by the Bureau regardless of the situation, as any death or security issue including an officer or agent down code is subject for heavy scrutiny and normally launches a painstaking internal investigation. Had they done their best to secure the scene? What went wrong? Did the unit have ample opportunity to disarm the UNSUB? Why had they allowed him to fire off any shots at all? Emily can already feel herself squirming under the intimidating gaze of the BAU Section Chief, Erin Strauss.  
"How we doing back there?"

 

Emily glances up briefly and meets Rossi's solemn gaze in the rearview mirror, but returns it to Hotch, who has shifted his body to lay across the seat with his knees bent, head in her lap. "As good as can be expected. How much farther are we from Gresham?"

Rossi sneaks a glance at the GPS system mounted on the dashboard just above the stereo. “It looks like we’re about two minutes away.”

“Thank God. Go as fast as possible, Dave.”

“Already going 80 down this highway. I go faster and we get pulled over.”

“Any police officer will understand considering the circumstances,” she reasons.

 

Hotch's normally well-kept, thick hair is in disarray, hanging limply and on-end with the sweat that dots his brow. He is frowning up at her, swallowing uncomfortably when the SUV hits every bump in the road. She has him hugged tight trying absorb the jarring movement, attempting to keep pressure on the back of his elbow. A red stain has bloomed from the gauze and ace bandage. It is sticking to everything around it--spreading down his light blue dress shirt, to her basic lavender colored blouse, to the soft gray passenger seat underneath them, and to her hands--caked in her fingernails, in every crease of the ivory skin. She thinks absently that blood is one of those substances that never seems to wash out completely. It’ll certainly be difficult to keep from her nightmares.

 

As they sit quietly, Emily contemplates the weight of the man's body lying across her lap, the flat coarseness of the Kevlar vest, the heat of his nearness, and despite the heavy copper smell of blood, the aftershave that she has become accustomed to when he passes by her—she identifies it as the 'Hotch smell.’ She flashes him a sad smile when she sees his silent study of her, finding herself enraptured by the chestnut brown irises of his eyes. She can't stop the sting of tears from surfacing when she considers what he's already been through, only to continue in his suffering with this new disturbing event. It had not been that long ago when he’d endured physical and psychological torture by George Foyet. He’d lost Haley, nearly lost Jack and his own life. "Hey, Aaron," she whispers. "You still with me?"

 

His lips thin to a grim line and he shifts uneasily. "Yeah, I'm with you."

 

The fingers not clutching to his injured arm have meandered around his head and lightly brush his neck, and she nearly jumps when she touches his fluttering pulse. Instead of moving them away from the tender spot, she allows the fingers to rest there, finds that the movement is reassuring. A reminder that his heart is beating. Emily mentally notes that it’s doing more than just beating, it’s racing—to accommodate the loss of blood volume and the trauma, but also likely as a result of nerves, fear.

 

Hotch doesn’t look good. His color has diminished, and the pink of his lips has drained to match the pallor of his skin. His head is propped up by her leg, and she can feel the heat and clamminess of the nape of his neck even through the layer of fabric. Emily impulsively runs her fingers through his dark hair, smoothing the strands down, and notices that the motion has a calming effect. He closes his eyes and his brows ease from the characteristic scowl.

“Hotch?” she asks stridently, demanding his attention.

Lids part slowly. “Hm?”

“Stay awake. Don’t close your eyes.” Emily skims her teeth nervously over her top lip until she’s sure she’ll chew a hole through the sensitive flesh. “Dave?”

“We’re pulling in right now,” the older man responds, then weaves the vehicle through the parking lot maze, and then follows the arrows that point to the ER entrance. He finally comes to a halt in front of the building, opens the driver side door, but first swivels to look back at Emily and Hotch. “Stay here. I’m going to go grab some help.”

“Please hurry, I think he’s in shock.”

“Yeah, okay. I’ll be right back!”

~*~

Rossi is only gone for a moment, but Emily still anxiously stares at the entrance. Time seems to slow impossibly to a halt; what feels like an hour is actually a tiny fraction of that, but all she can think of is that the precious life source continues to ooze from his shredded artery with each passing second. She sighs fretfully, glancing down at Hotch, and notices with dismay that he is out, breathing shallowly. Tears blur her vision, and she is all at once overwhelmed by alarm. “Aaron?” she calls out, shaking him a little. No answer. “Aaron!”

She looks up just in time to see Rossi and a few medical professionals running toward the vehicle, dragging a gurney with them. They stop in front of the door and thrust it open, and what was the calm, deceptively serene quiet interior of the SUV now sharpens to a chorus of concerned voices.

The wetness at Emily’s eyes spills over as she turns to address the team. “He’s just lost consciousness!”

A woman in scrubs hops into the back and leans over the two of them, stopping within inches of Emily’s face. She pushes expert fingers into his left wrist and pauses, counting silently the racing heart rate. “I’ve got a brachial pulse, but it’s faint and thready.” She leans away and pulls Hotch to the right as smoothly as possible to view the damage without disrupting the makeshift tourniquet and gauze pad acting as a compress. The woman turns to her team. “Quite a bit of blood. He looks shocky. All right, Jim, grab his feet. We’re going to lift him out of here.” She regards Emily with a mixture of sympathy and resolve. “You got his shoulders?”

The female agent nods a little, and then they are in motion, hauling the lanky unit chief from her lap and out of the backseat, onto the gurney. Emily hops to the ground unassisted to catch up with the team—they’ve moved him in place and strapped him in so he doesn’t move, and are pushing Hotch across the pavement swiftly and she and Rossi have to jog to join them as the doors to the entry swoosh open automatically to their presence.

“How long ago was he shot?” the woman shouts over the chaos of the emergency room, directing her gaze to the two agents following the procession of doctors and nurses.

“About twenty minutes ago,” Emily says, following the group through the short corridor to a trauma room. The gurney is moved next to a bed and her boss is unbuckled and hastily transferred. “Hotch?” she calls out to the man, but receives no response.

Now that he is in the ER’s hands, the swiftness of their movements gives the illusion that time is speeding by, and all Emily can do is watch nervously a few feet away. Hotch’s vest comes off and flies to the side of the room, landing in a heap on the floor, followed by his well-ordered shoes and socks, then his slacks, belt still strung through the loops. A gown is thrown over his lower half and a nurse snakes trauma shears through the man’s dress shirt and the impromptu tourniquet—no time to try and wrestle the thing over the hemorrhaging injury. Swiftness takes precedence over sentiment, and anyway, there’s no way in hell the garment will get rid of that stain. The shears also make their way through the ace bandage so that the wound is once again visible.

His chest is now evident under the harsh overhead lights, revealing the prominent scars from his previous attack, light pink in color from months of healing. A man with a white lab coat glances over at the two agents who are lingering at the foot of the stretcher, his expression startled. “Has he experienced any recent trauma other than tonight? Any prior surgeries?”

“Yes,” Rossi answers swiftly. “He was stabbed nine times about a year ago, but he recovered without incident. None of the major organs were affected.”

“Geez,” the doctor mutters. Electrodes are taped to multiple locations across Hotch’s torso, and monitors relay his pulse rate with the rapidly moving green line and a frenetic beeping. “What’s his pressure?”

“80 palp,” a nurse responds, busily pressing into his upper arm on the right side with her stethoscope as the other controls her blood pressure cuff.

“Push in a unit of O-neg. Let’s get his volume up then type and cross match. How about his pulse ox?”

Another man responds once an oximeter clip is fastened to Hotch’s right index finger. “96 on room air.”

“That’s within normal range. I want him on five liters of oxygen by mask to help him along though.” The doctor turns to one of the female nurses. “Prep him for a subclavian central line.”

Emily watches as the nurse swathes an alcohol wipe over the skin of Hotch’s clavicle, and the doctor pushes a needle that she recognizes for IV use into the vein underneath. He tediously works to secure the line, threading a small tube through the needle, and then patches it over with gauze, taping it in place. Another IV line is set up at the crook of his right elbow, where a saline drip is started.

The female agent wishes desperately that she could do more than stand at the end of his bed near his lightly draped feet, hands gripping her elbows and switching her stance from foot to foot. She feels about as useful as furniture and knows that a person in the trauma room other than the necessary doctors or nurses acts as a nuisance, but the medical team doesn’t seem bothered by her presence. Emily’s insides fill with hope when she notices a slight turn of his head and glazed eyes creep open, even if they are unfocused and detached. The warm brown gaze wanders the room under heavy lids, finally settling slightly to the left to meet her worried observation. His mask fogs with his breath, but she can see the lucidity and tiny grin in the crinkling of his eyes.

Emily’s lips curve upward and for a blissful moment, they connect with one another simply with a shared look. She had never really thought about how important he is to her life until Foyet had nearly taken him from the team—even if the man’s intention wasn’t necessarily to kill him—Hotch had seriously contemplated retiring officially from the BAU under the earnest guidance of Strauss, but the agent had ultimately chosen to keep fighting, refused to back down.

The unit has a dominating force over her personal life. She has no time for socializing, because any kind of relationship is almost like having an affair—always dodging sensitive topics, running at any and all hours of the day and night, keeping business and pleasure entirely separate. It’s easier to stay single, too much effort to include an outsider into her insane schedule. The cases and her coworkers are her entire existence, and Hotch, especially Hotch, sneaks his way into her thoughts and dreams in a manner that no one else can. She keeps these fleeting contemplations to herself and purposely avoids reflecting too long on them, because she knows that while he is unattached, technically a widower, he is her boss and it would be entirely inappropriate, especially considering the grief he feels over Haley’s death.

The activity in the room changes. There’s an air of finality to the medical personnel’s movements. “Let’s get an x-ray of that arm, stat. And contact the OR—let them know we need ortho and vascular to meet us upstairs,” the lead doctor says, and the IV and blood bags are removed from the metal poles and set in between Hotch’s legs, monitors unhooked and plugged into a mobile unit. The brake to the stretcher is kicked down and they are in motion.

Emily reaches out swiftly to grab Hotch’s right hand, and she is relieved to feel his grip tighten around her fingers. “Hotch—Aaron, I’ll be waiting for you, I promise.” Her voice is wavering with emotion, tears clouding her vision.

Their hands are separated when the bed moves from the room, and she follows them for a few steps down the hallway toward the elevators, but a warm palm on her shoulder causes her to stop. She’d almost forgotten entirely that she was not alone, that Rossi had been with her the whole time. She feels a flash of guilt, but it is overridden by the incessant need to be with her unit chief. “Emily.”

She refuses to look away until the stretcher and team disappear in the elevator and the doors close. She turns, brushing her bangs away from her forehead, inadvertently leaving stains of blood at her hairline. Her fingers tremble as they rake through the front of her scalp, digging apprehensively. Rossi snags her elbow and forces her to look at him. “What?”

“Let’s get some coffee. Surgery will take a while. And you may want to use the time as an opportunity to change. Don’t want to scare anybody.”

Emily looks down the front of her, noticing as if for the first time that her sleeves are covered in splotches of bright red, her hands matching, now slightly sticky from the congealing mess. She feels a sudden sense of unreality as she stares at Hotch’s blood, like she is in the Twilight Zone, and her knees weaken unexpectedly. “Oh, my God,” she whispers, unexpectedly repulsed by the sight.

Rossi pats her back. “Let’s go.”


	3. Chapter 3

Emily is sitting in silence in the OR waiting room, and Rossi has taken up residence next to her, busying himself with a water-stained, six month old Newsweek. She has her hands clinched together in her lap, and she is self-consciously roving her gaze around the room as she sits awkwardly in the mint-green scrubs, on loan from the hospital. Her fair complexion looks strange in the color—she is so used to her dark, tailored suits, deeply contrasted colors with her skin tone. It compliments her striking features, or so she’s been told.

 

After Rossi had to practically drag her away from the elevator leading to the operating rooms, she’d finally submitted to cleaning herself up, wandering into the ladies’ bathroom like an apparition, dazed and silent. The lighting above her had drained her of any color present in her face—or had it been the emotional shock of the harrowing turn of events? She had glanced at her image in the mirror and thought vacantly that she looked like an extra in a slasher movie, as the red splashes covered the entire length of her sleeve on the left side, was smeared across her middle, and she’d inadvertently streaked blurry fingerprints on her face. Her hands had been drenched in blood, like she’d plunged her hands in a bucket full of the substance. She had stared at her shocked expression for who knows how long, before she’d finally forced herself into motion, turned the faucet on, and had begun to vigorously scrub her skin to be rid of it, the reminder of how quickly the take down had turned to crap, of Hotch’s racing heartbeat against her fingers.

 

The sweep of nausea had been quick and surprising. She’d grabbed a few paper towels to dab at her forehead, had paused, then crashed her way into one of the stalls and had scarcely missed emptying her stomach into the toilet.

 

The push of the door had alerted her of a joining party, and she knew that whoever this person was listened for noises. She’d acknowledged that it had been Rossi’s concern that sent someone to locate her. She had initially thought for a moment he’d snuck in himself, but she heard the clearing of a throat with a woman’s intonation. It had been an understanding nurse who took pity on her and had handed her a scrub top and pants once she’d cleared out of the stall with a weary flush.

 

Emily fidgets with the loose fitting pants that feel more like pajamas than a uniform, and she stands up. She had cleaned most of the blood off of her face and hands, so she now appears a little more human, more acceptable for the public.

 

Rossi has been dissecting her movement with suspicion. She can feel him attempting to classify her body language and verbiage into something he can identify. Emily chooses to ignore him, wishing he’d stop looking at her like she has something to hide. Her mind sifts through the night, kicking herself for failing to remain indifferent, for leaving her emotions so exposed. She wants desperately to not care so much, wishes she had the ability to amble about like the others, concerned but not too involved. She’d like to turn back time to when they’d cornered the UNSUB and try again, this time have Hotch and Reid stand a half a foot in the other direction so that the bullets missed them entirely. Maybe apprehend the man a day prior before he had a chance to abduct the girl—who Emily assumes is somewhere in the hospital herself, undergoing a rape exam. She is a woman of reason, though, and she knows that wishing does nothing to add to her life. It doesn’t make anything better. There is no point to dwelling on what could have been done, only to focus on what is here and now, and what lies in the future.

 

Knowing that Hotch had promised Jack a return in the next few days, Rossi had taken it upon himself the responsibility of telling Jessica, Haley’s sister, about the situation and had informed her of the potential delay in the team’s homecoming. The understanding woman had been genuinely concerned, and promises of any updates had ended the tentative conversation.

 

She mindlessly begins a round of pacing in front of the double doors, and sees movement out of the corner of her eye. It’s JJ—she looks amazingly calm and composed, and Emily can’t help but feel envious and a little ashamed that she’d lost control. She hadn’t had such a volatile reaction to trauma—even against her teammates—in a long time, probably dating back to her international crime-fighting days. Even then she’d been dubbed an ice queen for her ability to handle carnage with an uncanny level of stoicism.

 

The blond woman steps up to them and regards them with compassion and worry only evident in her eyes. “Heard anything?” she asks.

 

Emily shakes her head, unable to trust her own voice.

 

Rossi sets the thumbed-through magazine onto the side table next to him. “How’s Reid?”

 

“He’s doing okay. Took seven stitches and will have an interesting scar to share.”

 

Emily feels a rush of remorse; she’d forgotten to check in on the young prodigy, had failed to even inquire about his wellbeing. “No internal damage or broken bones?” she asks, hugging her middle self-consciously.

 

JJ’s sidelong grin is brief as she casts a glance in her direction. “Luckily for his sake, no.” She breathes in quietly, filling her chest with air and releasing it in a thin stream. “Did Hotch seem okay before he went into surgery?”

 

The question makes Emily horribly antsy and pushes her into another bout of agitated pacing. Rossi answers for her once again. “He’s lost a lot of blood. He passed out for a little while, but came around after a transfusion and IV fluids right before he was taken to surgery.” The older man pauses, his stare following the raven-haired beauty as she shuffles past the swinging doors, consumed in her own thoughts. “Honestly, I think he’ll be fine. Recovery will definitely take some time. I think the most important thing will be making sure his hand and arm regains full function afterward.”

 

The blond woman glances at Emily, then back at Rossi, a probing countenance in her eyes. “What’s with her?” she asks softly, thin brows dipping.

 

“I couldn’t say,” he says, choosing his words with caution. Rossi’s busy studying the brunette with a profiler’s curiosity, measuring her posture and mannerisms, intently ruminating on the cause of her agitation. Her behavior in the past year has changed somewhat, and he’s not fool enough to think that the slip in character has nothing to do with the drama surrounding Hotch’s life after the Foyet case. Emily had tried like hell to seem aloof, even resorted to avoidance, but it had been a brief lapse. Rossi had been watching the agent’s emotions blossom when she’d work with the unit chief, and he’d come to the conclusion that her reaction to his presence was likely something she had yet to address. Stubborn refusal, the epitome of denial. She’d light up when Hotch was near, and then school her expression to slide back into an impassive façade to keep the others from noticing. Had to continue to pretend that her feelings did not exist to remain in control.

 

The latest dramatic event solidifies his suspicions. Emily Prentiss is falling for her boss. Hard. Still fighting against her unquestionable allure to Hotch. Rossi knows the man is not made of stone, and despite the tough year he’d experienced, he knows that Hotch has a particular soft spot for Emily. They’re initial introduction of one another had been volatile because of his own familiarity with Emily’s ambassador mother and her own connections with Interpol, but Hotch’s attitude had shifted gears quickly after she had proven herself a skilled and worthy colleague, and Rossi had often found his friend enchanted by the female agent, especially when in the midst of a failing marriage.

 

However, administrative rules are paramount to Hotch. Policies and procedures define his life, who he is as a person. He knows that Hotch seems to harbor a nonexistent sense of humor and seems overly buttoned up because the rules define him, someone of honor and integrity, and it is difficult for him to ‘let loose’ like the others. But he’s witnessed the SSA unit chief’s deadpan, often dry humor and knows that it comes out on rare occasion. His career involves serious subject matter, and to act beyond the scope of its gravity is to lose sight of himself as an agent, makes it difficult to separate his personal life from his work persona. This is one reason why relationships within the Bureau are absolutely a no go.

 

Of course, the other reason is policy states that persons of authority must never engage in a relationship with a subordinate, and Rossi knows Hotch will never act as long as this remains important to him.

 

Footsteps scraping across the thinly carpeted corridor leading to the OR waiting room grab the trio’s attention, and stepping through the entrance is Morgan, shouldering a cell phone to his ear while he pushes a wheelchair-bound Reid before him. The younger man lets his lips spread to a sheepish grin, and Rossi, JJ, and Emily all give the two their attention.

 

Emily steps forward. “Hey, Spencer, how are you feeling?”

 

“Well, I’m doing well considering what could have happened had our UNSUB had better control over his aim. However, his gun control issues are probably a result of his missing left ring finger. The potential for serious damage from an intermediate velocity bullet is made more like one of a higher speed when fired at such a close range. The variables, such as fear and excitement, outside temperature, wind speed, cleanliness of the bullet chamber, his missing finger, and keeping the victim under control definitely worked in my favor.” Spencer trails off when the group gives him that look that indicates he is rambling, as usual. He withholds the typical desire to spill sometimes useless facts and trivia like he is a human encyclopedia, choosing to keep his next response simple. “Despite the antibiotics, a tetanus shot, and stitches, I feel fine.” He shrugs haplessly.

 

“He’s been downstairs keeping the patients and staff entertained,” Morgan sarcastically informs them, appearing resigned. “Spence, tell them where you got your tetanus shot,” he teases. Reid squirms uncomfortably, and they chuckle lightly at his misfortune.

 

“Well, the gluteus maximus is a larger muscle than the bicep. Realistically it should take less time for the pain from the injection site to dissipate,” the younger man states, grimacing.

 

“Sorry about the unfortunate mental picture,” Morgan quips, and then he presses a button on his phone and suddenly a voice emits from the speaker. “Garcia’s been anxious to find out about Hotch. Go ahead, Baby Girl.”

 

“Hey, guys,” their favorite BAU tech mastermind says in a cheerful, albeit restrained tone. “How is everyone doing? How’s our fearless leader? Anyone heard anything yet?”

 

Emily pulls fingernails from her mouth, convinced she’ll have them chewed down to stumps if she doesn’t control herself. “He’s still in surgery.”

 

“Derek said he was shot in the arm.”

 

Rossi makes room for JJ as the woman takes a seat, and speaks up in the process. “Yeah, his dominant one. Looks like the bullet struck the main artery, possibly fractured some bones in the process.”

 

“Oh, God,” Penelope says softly. “Is it serious?”

 

“We’re not quite sure, yet, PG,” Emily answers, then spies movement behind the OR doors and her nerves spike with new tension. “Someone’s coming,” she alerts the team.

 

Sure enough, a slender young woman with her mask pulled away from her mouth shoves through, acknowledging the small crowd with a gentle smile. “Hi, everyone. You’re here for the FBI agent, right? Aaron Hotchner?” They nod simultaneously, looking a little like a row of captivated owls, complete with wide, restless eyes and razor-sharp concentrated focus. “I just wanted to update you on Agent Hotchner’s condition and the progress of his surgery.” The group prods her to continue with muted attention. “So x-rays show that the bullet nicked the ulna, one of the long bones of the forearm, then shattered the lateral epicondyle and olecranon, basically wreaked havoc on the entire elbow joint. He has quite a few fractures, so the orthopedic surgeon will be placing plates, rods, and pins against the bones to help with healing.” She pauses, allowing the information to sink in before continuing. “He also sustained a substantial laceration to his brachial artery and the bullet damaged his radial and ulnar nerves. Our best vascular and neurological surgeons are working to repair them, but it is very tedious and may take hours to complete.”

 

“What’s his outcome look like?” Penelope asks, the breathless sound apparent even from the speaker.

 

The nurse is hesitant to answer the woman, instead giving a safe response. “It’s difficult to say at this point. All I know is that the bleeding is under control with the repair to the brachial artery, and that we’re looking at several more hours of microscopic surgery, which means more waiting for you guys. I’m sorry.” She glances around at the team who are now crestfallen with the grim news. “Chins up, agents. He’s alive, that’s the most important part.”

 

Emily scoffs, shaking her head. “Right.”

 

“Uh, does Agent Hotchner have a next of kin we need to contact? I don’t remember if they’d been called or not.”

 

Rossi frowns. “I’m not sure. He has a brother, but I have no idea how to get ahold of him.”

 

Morgan lifts his phone closer to his mouth. “Babycakes, can you pull up Hotch’s personnel file and find his brother’s contact information?”

 

“Sure thing, Hot Stuff,” she returns, sounding better now that she has a task to perform.

 

“We’ll get on that right away,” JJ says to the nurse, and the woman nods gratefully.

 

“I’ll come back in a couple of hours to give you another update, okay?” The nurse smiles again, then turns toward the hallway and lets the door swing shut.

 

While Emily stares up at a clock and starts the maddening back and forth path, Rossi turns to JJ. The blond has her hands folded in between her knees, watching the other woman return to her aimless wandering. “Would you mind if I take Prentiss for a walk?” he asks.

 

JJ shrugs, and then shakes her head. “That’s fine, Dave. Why do you ask?”

 

“I think I should have a little chat with her. Stay here for updates. Call me if there are any, will you?” She nods. “Thanks.”

 

 

Rossi swears he’d expected a small army to remove Emily from the OR waiting room, but amazingly enough, she goes with him willingly. He assumes this has something to do with the nurse’s statement that Hotch would be in surgery for longer than expected.

 

The two take the elevator to the bottom floor where the cafeteria would normally be operating, but the time on his watch and the dark room says otherwise. Instead, they pause in front of a vending machine near the ER entrance and feed it a few dollars, retrieving a bag of chips and a small candy bar. The nurse’s lounge has fresh coffee, and one of the bottom floor orderlies disappears for a moment only to come back with two paper cups with the steaming liquid.

 

Rossi and Emily sit on one of the cushioned benches lined up against the wall just outside of the ER and they remain quiet for a long stretch before she speaks.

 

“What’s up, Dave?”

 

He trains his face to remain completely expressionless. “I should be asking you the same.” She shoots him a glare and he concedes. “Okay, okay.” His hands rise in mock surrender. “I dragged you away from the waiting room to see what’s going on with you.”

 

She is bewildered, stopping mid-bite from her Snickers to stare at him in disbelief. “Well, I don’t know. Maybe two people in our unit getting shot makes me feel a little emotional.”

 

He huffs a laugh. “I know. What I mean is you’ve never been this worked up about one of our teammates taking a bullet or getting their asses kicked before. This is definitely a first.”

 

Emily stares at her food, suddenly looking uninterested in the rest of what is in her hand. “I actually don’t know why I’m so upset.”

 

Rossi sets the bag of chips down next to him and leans forward to rest his arms against his legs. “Emily, be frank with me, please? What’s going on with you and Hotch?”

 

Her head whips up in shock. “What?”

 

He raises his dramatic eyebrows like a patronizing father. “I only see this when two people are too close and can’t remain objective. Like when they have feelings yet to be reciprocated.”

 

“That’s not fair. Hotch and I have never done such a thing.”

 

“Sure, I believe you. You haven’t done anything. Yet.”

 

“Dave,” she warns, hurt. “I can’t believe you’d even insinuate—”

 

“Emily, I know Hotch. He would never do anything he didn’t think was right. But I see it with my own eyes. You two are drawn to each other, and you both are trying like hell to fight it. Even now, you deny having feelings for him, but I know the truth.”

 

"I couldn't...I mean, Haley just died—what—a year ago? It would be cruel to Jack, to Hotch!"

 

"I know."

 

She opens her mouth to further argue the point, but is speechless. Because it’s true, a soft voice whispers. You do have feelings for him. “I don’t know what to say.”

 

“You don’t need to say anything. Just stop lying to yourself.”

 

“It can’t happen. We could never be together—it’s just not possible. He’s my boss…it would be against the rules. You know how he is about following protocol.”

 

“Okay. You’ve got a valid point. Nonetheless, the way the man watches you when you don’t know it—it’s obvious what he feels.”

 

She blushes a bright red, then the tiny grin that follows dips with a sad grimace. “What if he loses arm function? Or it has to be amputated? Or worse…what if he dies? Here I am considering a romance with my boss, when he could…”

 

“He’ll be okay, Emily.” He pats her shoulder, then stands with a yawn and an animated stretch of his arms. “You should try to get some sleep.”

 

“I can’t.”

 

“I’ll wake you when we get word.”

 

“I’m going back up to the OR waiting room.” With his narrowed glance, she sighs theatrically. “Fine! I’ll try to lay on one of the benches upstairs.”

 

He grins, and then follows behind her as they head back to the elevator.


	4. Chapter 4

A heavy fogginess surrounding his normally high-functioning brain slowly evaporates into a dogged, but somewhat alert lethargy that Hotch has become quite familiar with over the years. It had begun as long nights of cramming while attending Harvard, then pouring over reports and findings as a prosecutor and as a field agent in Seattle, before his days at Quantico. Somehow he had managed to squeeze in more restless hours as a late-blooming father even as he had assumed his duties as the BAU lead agent.

The familiar sensation of sleep-deprivation comes as no surprise, but as the synapses inside his mind begin to operate as usual, he realizes that he cannot remember falling asleep. How did I get home? Where is Jack?

His brain desperately attempts to sort through the hazy depths of his memory, but cannot seem to bring anything to the forefront. Dread clutches his middle. Something has happened, he knows it, and here he is just lounging around waiting for something to transpire. Although he knows Foyet is dead, I killed him myself, he thinks—the irrational fear surfaces that he will be attacked when he is defenseless and lying there like a bump on a log.

With his eyes still stubbornly closed, he concentrates on the minute sounds around him and he realizes suddenly that he catches little scraps of women’s conversation as they chat softly within hearing distance. One voice sounds closer to his right ear, the other at the end of his bed. Light beeping and the gentle hush of an air circulation system compete with the voices, and he is pulled even more so from his nap when he senses a presence looming over him.

He wants to open his eyes, but the overwhelming grogginess does not seem to want to lift. Fingers touch the skin of his cheek and he gets a strong whiff of disinfectant and sterile gloves. He knows the smell all too well from examining evidence and crime scenes. A plastic tube is adjusted underneath his nose, tickling the dried-out nostrils, and the movements of this person pull him almost entirely from the confusing slumber, but not enough to render him fully alert.

“Agent Hotchner? You with us yet?” the closer woman says gently, hand touching his right shoulder. Her voice rings through his tired brain, bouncing around in his skull like a pinball machine. “Agent Hotchner, your surgery is over and it was a success. Time to wake up.” The hand cups his bicep and rattles it slightly. He grumbles in irritation without putting too much thought to the action, and then awareness creeps back into his mind like a morning sunrise. Surgery…ah. That’s right. Gunshot wound.

Almost as if he is watching scene from a movie, he hears a crack in the night air and something that had at first felt like getting jabbed with a stick is quickly replaced with a raw, agonizing pain that sends lightning bolts firing up his forearm, pooling at his elbow and continuing to his shoulder. He remembers the blood, a disconcerting amount of it, seeping through his fingers, even with the collective attempts at suppressing the flow with his own tie and a length of bandage. He remembers Emily’s panicked eyes as she held him on their way speeding down the dark Oregon road to the nearest hospital, the tremble in her voice, her soft hands threading through his hair, then nothing.

“Your doctor will visit you as soon as we have you settled in recovery.”

Hotch’s recollection of hospital recovery is unpleasant. There is nothing settling about the experience. From what he remembers, recuperation à la hospital room is loathsome—which is why if he can, he avoids it entirely. Sleep is always interrupted by cloying medical staff with good intentions, ripping him from his slumber to do their rounds, checking vitals, asking questions, overenthusiastic cossetting of his assumed needs when all he wants is to sleep or get the hell out of there.

The hand, which he presumes is attached to a nurse, slides down his upper arm, then picks up the deadweight limb and he feels a squeezing around his bicep, causing his hand to tingle and pulsate until he hears an accompanying sigh from a blood pressure cuff release valve. Fingers prod his wrist for a moment, and then the presence slinks around to the other side of him, peeling back the covering of gauze he’d not been aware of previously. It’s almost like she is pulling off a second layer of skin—he’d love to articulate in less than friendly terms how great this feels, but all he can manage is a muffled “Mmphf.” His eyes snap open briefly, then shut almost as quick when the world is simply too bright for his fried senses.

He is frowning when he feels himself drifting off once again. Sleep gestures and he succumbs to its warm embrace all too eagerly.

In what feels like a single heartbeat, Hotch awakens once again, this time to a dimly-lit corner—something he recognizes from his experiences as a surgical recovery room. His eyes drift around, unsure of what he is searching for, then spies a clock on the wall and narrows his gaze at it to read the time.

6:15. He assumes this means a.m. He is in a windowless spot deep in the interior of the hospital, a place that entails no natural exposure to sunlight, so he has no way to know if it is morning or evening.

Hotch attempts to move his left arm, but quickly realizes that it is pinned to his midsection, set into a complex apparatus that encompasses nearly his entire upper body. He glances down the front of him and stares in fascination at the arm swathed in heavy bandages, resting inside a hinged splint complete with velcro straps. Strangely, he does not feel any pain, and judging by the wrap job, some extensive work has been done. He’s sure there’s a large, stapled incision somewhere guaranteed to leave a nasty scar amongst the others already there.

He makes an uncoordinated attempt at moving his fingers and finds out promptly that even the slightest movement of the digits causes the nerves inside his forearm to spark bright with pain. He bites his lip and squeezes his eyes shut, riding out the throb that accompanies the action. Okay, he thinks derisively. No more of that.

Motion to the left of him draws his fuzzy attention away from his body, and a young woman in dark purple scrubs clutching his charts looks up and smiles immediately.

“You’re awake!” she says in an overly-cheerful tone.

Hotch’s right hand moves in exaggerated slowness until it rests over his brow, and he uses it to scrape his face with a startling amount of fatigue. He peeks at the nurse after settling his palm below his mouth, briefly disturbing the nasal cannula.

She makes a tsking sound and repositions the tube, curling it around his ears, cinching it tight underneath his chin. “How are you feeling?”

“’m all right,” he slurs and he flinches a little at the scratchy noise. He’d clear his throat to get rid of the post-surgery rasp, but the inside of his mouth is dry as a bone and anyway, he has absolutely no energy left to function properly. Before he has a chance to say anything else, the nurse leaves his side and returns after a few seconds with a cup of ice chips. She spoons one into his parched mouth and he is instantly thankful for the cooling feeling that the water has as it slips down his throat. This sensation is enough to help him relax, and he once again slips into a slumber induced by the anesthesia still coursing through his veins.

~*~

Emily hadn’t expected falling to sleep in the OR waiting room would be so easy, but she isn’t really all that surprised, considering she hardly gets enough rest to begin with. She’d attempted to keep herself awake until Hotch’s surgery was over, but with the team settling reluctantly into the cushions of their chairs and benches, she’d followed suit and had quickly drifted off curled tightly in a ball.

A shake of her right shoulder rips her from her dozing and she pushes herself up into a sitting position with trembling joints. She looks around in confusion and sees JJ leaning over her. The blond woman appears tired, but has a small grin on her face. “What’s up?” Emily asks, swiping at her eyes to rub the sleepiness from them.

“Hotch is out of surgery. The doctor wants to speak to us.”

A tall, finely-distinguished man stands before them, introducing himself as an orthopedic surgeon, and he sums up the procedure in layperson’s terms, saving the group from the confusion of medical jargon—at least everyone besides Reid, who Emily is sure would have no problem following along if he were not slumbering with his head tilted to the side and resting in his palm, still in the wheelchair.

The surgeon details Hotch’s hospital stay—which may take up to a week, his estimated recuperation time, and eventual physical therapy. The harsh smack of reality hits Emily’s gut like a heavy brick. Hotch will need months, if not an entire year of healing and rehabilitation to recover from the wound, and she cannot help the gloomy disappointment from trickling its way into her insides. She inquires how long it’ll take for him to return to work, and the surgeon’s eyebrows pinch together before he explains generically that it depends on his strict adherence to rest, medication, and therapy that make such a determination.

The man allows a look throughout the room, because a next of kin is not readily available, offering to take one person back to visit Hotch since he is now in post-op recovery. He’d let the whole group see the SSA unit chief if he’d been in his own private room, but with respect to the watchful eyes of the medical staff, too many individuals in the room can become a problem if they need the space for any emergencies.

The group seems to divert their attention to Emily, and she stares back dumbly. She takes their nonverbal cue and stands wordlessly, glancing for a moment at Rossi while she passes and he returns her look with a knowing smile.

“Are you sure?” she asks them, pausing at the hallway.

“Go ahead, Emily,” Morgan responds softly. “Let us know when he wakes up.”

She nods, then turns with the doctor to continue toward their destination. After guiding her through a maze of illuminated corridors and nurses’ stations, she finally saunters up to a door with ‘Recovery’ stenciled on the window. The doctor acts as chaperone, and the man squeezes her shoulder kindly and bids her well after stating that he’ll be back later on in the mid-morning. He turns away just as she pushes into the room where Hotch is lying somewhat propped up, snoring lightly with a slackened mouth. She edges up to him and quietly pulls a chair to his right side, taking a seat and watching the man glumly with the knowledge of what his future holds. She is familiar enough with him to know that he will initially sulk and attempt to isolate himself from the rest of the world, and then try to disregard his condition and manipulate his way back to work when he cannot handle the inactivity and the confines of his home for too long.

Emily takes in the strange contraption wrapped around his torso—something that resembles a back brace—that is attached to a stiff, jointed splint which begins at his shoulder and ends at his fingertips, wrapped tighter than a drum with dark blue straps. His entire left arm is rendered completely useless, and is pinned to his midsection to eliminate any kind of movement. The black elbow hinge somewhat hides the white gauze that conceals the lengthy surgical incision.

Despite the condition of his arm, Hotch looks peaceful, erasing lines and years of stress and grief. His face is softened to a youthfulness that she’s only had the chance to see a handful of times—once in a similar state as now, and a few other times when he’d allowed a true, boyish smile complete with delightfully handsome dimples to captivate his normally passive expression.

She reaches out a tentative hand and allows it to close around his right wrist, thankful for the warmth beneath her palm.

~*~

A chiming alarm sounds off in the distance, and Emily curiously thinks that it is similar to a door bell. It continues to make noises, until the activity around her picks up pace, and all of a sudden she jolts as if she’s been speared with a hot poker. Emily glances around, noticing that a nurse is buzzing about Hotch’s right side. Emily’s heart leaps to her throat and she stands to see what is going on, but her anxiety dissolves when she realizes that the nurse’s actions, while swift, are not frenzied.

Emily waits for the young woman to add a new IV bag to the pole next to him, and then returns to her place, observing eagerly that he is awake. “Hey,” she greets, and then yawns, moving her head from side to side to work out the stiff muscles—sleeping while sitting in the chair has done a number on her poor neck.

“Nice outfit.”

She tugs on the light green scrubs, and her laugh bubbles up spontaneously. It feels good to finally smile after so many hours of worried contemplation. “Oh, thanks. You know, you should really consider updating the administrative dress code policy to include these things. They’re pretty comfortable.”

He plays into her gentle teasing effortlessly. “I’ll take that under advisement.” Hotch takes a deep breath, and then switches back to sincerity. “You didn’t leave?” he probes. Emily stares at him earnestly, studying the dark, introspective brown depths of his eyes, and even glazed over from recent anesthesia and heavy sleep, she feels a warm fluttering begin to take flight inside of her.

“Of course not,” she says, breathless. She allows her mind to revert to Rossi’s analysis of her feelings for Hotch, and her face begins to heat up in embarrassment.

His expression remains blank as he visibly reads her. “It couldn’t have been very comfortable to sleep in that chair.” He squirms a bit, attempting in his limited state to find a better position. “You could have gone back to the hotel, relax while I was in surgery.”

Emily resists an embittered eye roll, instead going with a sarcastic remark to play it safe. “Well, I thought about stepping out to a bar, hanging out with the locals. Mingle with the hipster crowd, crunch on some granola.” The left side of Hotch’s mouth drifts upward in response and she chooses to continue. “You know, Portland’s well-known for their microbreweries and food carts.”

“Is that so?” he asks, seeming appreciative of the familiar, harmless quips.

“Not to mention the beards and flannel.” She grows serious, studying her hands. “You really think I would leave? Hotch, the team and I waited for hours until you got out of surgery. You are aware we’d never just take off while you were here.”

Hotch’s half-grin drops. “I know.”

She sighs, running her fingers over her forehead through her hair tiredly, then locks gazes with him. She feels the spring of tears at the corners of her eyes and she curses inwardly at herself for being so weak. “We were really worried about you. It wasn’t that long ago when you were in a similar place and I was watching you just like now.”

“I appreciate what you’ve done for me, Emily,” he quietly answers in his rich baritone. She responds to the use of her given name with an unanticipated shyness, ducking her head, peering at him in a coy manner, very uncharacteristic of her typical behavior. She knows that he’ll see it in an instant with that razor-sharp profiler’s insight, send it through his discerning brain to interpret its meaning. He’s amazingly precise with his understanding of a person’s thoughts and actions. Too precise.

“If you insist on being here, I would recommend getting some coffee,” he says, gaze sweeping over her. “You look exhausted.”

“Gee thanks, you sure know how to flatter a girl,” Emily cracks. “And you look like a million bucks, yourself.” She takes in the pallor of his skin, the electrodes attached to his chest peeking out from under the loosely fit hospital gown, and the cumbersome hinged splint—she feels a pang of remorse that she is trying so desperately to banter with him so that she doesn’t feel more awkward than she already is.

“I’ll be fine,” Hotch mumbles, sensing the change in the environment.

She nods, biting her lip. “Of course.” She stands up, antsy.

“Hey,” he says, eyebrows dipping. “What’s going on?”

“Aaron—” She turns around to look at him, then slinks up to him, fingers itching to hold his right hand like she had last night. “You could have bled to death in my lap. Do you realize a few more minutes longer and you could have died? What would we have done if that had happened?”

The tendon in his cheek jumps as he tightens his jaw, showing tension in a subtle way that a less knowledgeable person would have overlooked. “I’m okay, Emily. Regardless of what happened, I’ll be fine.”

She presses her chewed on fingernails into the skin of her palms. “I was worried about you.”

He swallows, and just as he opens his mouth to respond, the door behind her swings ajar and the orthopedic surgeon’s sneakered gait slows to a halt.

“I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” the man asks.

Hotch and Emily divert their gaze from one another, appearing almost as if they had been caught in the act of lewd discussion or an improper deed, then both turn their eyes to the doctor who looks far more refreshed than before. The two shake their heads.

“Okay, let’s get down to business,” says the doctor as he pulls a rolling stool away from the corner of the room and to Hotch’s left side. “We’ve never been properly introduced, Agent Hotchner. My name is Dr. Gould—I’m the orthopedic surgeon that repaired the bones in your arm. The neurologist who repaired the nerves and veins got pulled away for another surgery, but I can answer any of the questions you have regarding his work.”

Dr. Gould goes over the results of the surgery, cheerily stating that the operation had been triumphant. He is confident the unit chief will regain full use of his hand and arm, but that recovering from such a wound is lengthy and requires plenty of follow up, something Emily knows Hotch is terrible at. About a week is the projected stay before they are willing to release him for his flight home, and the splint will stay in place until the surgical site heals and the staples are removed. After that, he’ll likely stay in a cast for up to six weeks, depending on how quickly his body responds to healing, also barring any complications.

He ends the conversation with a smile, shaking Emily’s hand, then bids the agents farewell, promising to return the following morning.

A nurse flits into the room and checks over Hotch’s vitals, and Emily chooses to take the opportunity to update the rest of the unit. She’s sure they’re anxious to find out if he has come around. They have been just as worried, and it would be cruel to hoard all of his time for herself. “I’m going to let the others know you’re awake. I’ll see you soon, okay?”

“Emily,” he says just as the nurse places a thermometer into his mouth to measure his temperature.

It’s something in his tone that makes her pause, clasping her middle. “Yes?” He is forced to remain silent, instead imploring her with his eyes to stay, but she blinks, and then swivels toward the door. “Don’t worry, Aaron. I’ll be back.” Emily has to force her legs into motion, everything in her screaming to sit and pine away at his side. But she cannot take the tension in between them, and remembers the group’s nervous vigil in the waiting room.

Moving down the hallway feels wrong, but she doesn’t turn back.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Updating may take a bit more time, since I just recently started working graveyard... :P But I moved out of retail and into police records! Woot! Huge change! I'm hoping I develop a pretty good perspective when it comes to crime-based fiction...Anyway! Onward!

Hotch’s team had cycled through their checkup on their leader, stopping by to make their requisite visit and to give him support. Rossi had come in shortly after Emily’s departure and had stayed just until the nurse on duty loaded Hotch up with pain meds. He’d been quite uncomfortable by then as the sedative used for surgery had finally lifted and in its wake was the unpleasantness that he remembered from his past experiences with going under the knife. The creeping ache that had begun in his elbow had become a swarming pain that encompassed his entire arm, and by the time the nurse had decided to show up, he’d been close to losing his cool and had wanted to begin screaming for something to ease the discomfort.

 

Fortunately, by the time JJ had tiptoed into his room, he’d been good and medicated, fighting through periods of morphine-induced semi-consciousness and he’d hardly paid her any notice, couldn’t even be sure that she’d been there in the first place—everything had a dreamlike quality to it, the sounds, smells, touch of his surroundings—and his perception of reality and time had been distorted so he hadn’t been aware of what was real and what was a mere figment of his drugged-up imaginings. Had he dreamt up the mostly one-sided conversation he’d been having with the blond woman? He’d vaguely recalled his incoherent responses to her soft questions, and her good-natured chuckling. Felt real enough.

 

What had seemed like a few seconds of drifting in and out had actually been several hours. When he’d, at long last, awoken entirely, he had expected JJ to still be at his side, but he had been surprised to not only find he was in a completely different room, but Morgan had taken up residence at his side, a large file in his lap. He’d been engrossed in the text when Hotch had turned toward him, grunting in frustration at the limitations of movement he’d now faced.

 

If the older man is honest with himself, he will admit that he had hoped Emily would return and continue the strange conversation she’d started hours earlier.

 

After an orderly wheels in a feast of soft foods covered in aluminum lids, trivial dialogue about the crew and Reid’s improving condition quickly turns into shop talk.

 

Once Hotch’s bed is adjusted into a sitting position, Morgan closes the file and regards the man in resignation. “His name was Dean Marcus Klinger.” Morgan unfolds his arms and adjusts his long legs as he rests awkwardly in the chair next to Hotch.

 

“Sounds familiar. How do we know him?” the unit chief asks, faintly attentive as he turns his sickeningly sweet apple juice in a plastic bottle around in his right hand. He looks more despondent than interested. None of the containers before him have been touched with the exception of the small jug clutched in his grip. He’d been forced to accept help from Morgan after the younger man had spied his boss attempting, and failing, to stab a straw into the top of the container. One sip later, Hotch is glumly acquiescent of this new reality—requiring assistance with simple, mundane tasks that he’d performed himself since he’d been old enough to walk. Why couldn’t he have been shot in his non-dominant arm? His life would have been far easier if his left elbow had stayed intact.

 

He imagines the prolonged stay in Portland, then the month long recuperation at home with the three day a week visits to the physical therapist, doing circles around his apartment, chasing Jack with one good arm and half of the patience. Learning how to write without making himself look ridiculous, relearning once again how to hold and operate a firearm. If he cannot recover beyond reproach, he may as well turn in his shield and retire while he still has a morsel of his pride—that’s the scariest notion of all. And something that could very well be his life from this point on.

 

Morgan appears to take notice of Hotch’s deep contemplation, but he continues as if he is being heard. “He knew one of our victims, Natasha Haynes, associated through one of his kids.”

 

Hotch’s mind skimmers over the images he’d viewed a week before in his Quantico office—a picture of a striking 12 year old girl with an open, trusting smile, perfectly styled mahogany brown locks, and then the dark, repulsively explicit shots made by one of the responding crime scene technicians after a jogger had discovered her body in a heavily wooded area near Mount Tabor Park.

 

“The cops over at the central precinct office had originally investigated him for sexual abuse in 2008, allegedly made by a girl who disappeared about a year ago. They’ve never been able to locate her body, and never got him to confess to anything, so they were forced to release him until they found her remains or more evidence was uncovered.”

 

Hotch frowns toward the wall at that. The rotten injustice of the local police having an eye on the UNSUB and having their hands tied by lack of evidence does not sit well with him. Especially when it results in an innocent girl enduring sexual abuse and being killed by the same creep while local law enforcement sit on their hands, waiting for the man to commit another heinous act so that they have something more concrete to charge him. “His first victim.” His gaze switches to his younger counterpart. “What was her name?”

 

“Brittany Quinton, who was 11 years old at the time she vanished. She had accused him of trying to rape her a year prior. Her disappearance generated one of the largest searches conducted in Multnomah County history by then. Volunteers have launched three of their own since the police decided to pull back after nothing turned up.”

 

Hotch scoffs discontentedly and stares at the side of his apple juice as if he has found something interesting about it that requires so much attention. He wishes that he can simply move on from this case, try to recover now that they know the UNSUB is dead and the girl they’d been attempting to find is safe from harm and in the stronghold of police protection. However, he knows that Morgan’s deductive mind needs answers, and that is why he is studying the large manila dossier instead of one of the magazines lying untouched in the plastic holder against the wall. Not to mention, something just doesn’t sit right with Hotch—his intuition is still screaming at him despite the conclusiveness brought by the UNSUB’s death. “What was her connection to Klinger?”

 

“She lived down the street from his house, and was in the same after school choir as his daughter Nicole and the other victim, Natasha. All three girls were friends.”

 

Hotch fiddles with the bulky straps enclosing his mangled left arm, his mind starting to fill in the gaping holes that had plagued the investigation from the beginning. “So he went from murdering girls in his neighborhood to running up and down I-5, nabbing perfect strangers? Are you absolutely sure that he didn’t have an associate?”

 

Morgan shrugs. “As far as we know, he acted alone. He very well could have started where he felt comfortable, and then expanded his scope when his criminal conduct began to escalate.”

 

“Maybe so, but I think we need to look into the theory of another potential UNSUB.”

 

Emily knocks on the open door. “Hey.”

 

Hotch’s attention shifts to the right and he urgently tries to ignore the little leaps his middle does at the sight of her. “What’s going on?”

 

The woman half-grins, then enters the private room appearing strained. “Something’s come up.”

 

Morgan stands to greet her. “A new development?” Emily nods grimly, eyes sneaking over to the man in the bed and holding his just a moment before flitting away nervously. Morgan turns to Hotch seemingly unaware of the awkward exchange, whose hawk eyes have sharpened in intensity. “Another missing girl?”

 

“Not quite,” Emily says, pocketing her hands in her jeans—clearly she’d had time to clean up and change—as she comes to a stop at the foot of the bed. “Dean Klinger’s son Gregory hasn’t been heard from in five hours. His mother said that this is extremely unusual for what is typical of his normally methodical and organized behavior.”

 

Hotch rubs at his left collarbone. “Why is that significant? Do the police think that Klinger killed his son?”

 

“Actually, I don’t think Dean Klinger killed those girls in Washington or California. I think that his victims have been solely based out of the Portland area.”

 

“Our profile was wrong,” Hotch mumbles softly.

 

Morgan glances at Emily. “There were two UNSUBs. Father and son.”

 

Emily lifts her shoulders haplessly. “As bizarre as it sounds, this seems to be a family affair. Digging into Klinger’s background turned up something interesting—his father is serving a life sentence for murdering a stranded motorist off of I-5 just before he raped and strangled the man’s wife, and then dumped their bodies in a shallow grave a few miles away.” Their silence urges her to continue. “We can presume that young and impressionable Dean rode with him and also participated in the murders, but investigators back then were unable to place him at the scene, and they were forced to release him to his mother after they questioned him.”

 

“So the family business is alive and well through Klinger’s son.”

 

She nods, and then makes room for Rossi, who squeezes his way in. “Hotch,” the older man says, appearing ready for action. He is busily clipping his shield onto his belt next to his service pistol. “An APB was sent out about thirty minutes ago with Gregory Klinger’s physical description, as well as his car. He may have been spotted heading southwest toward I-5, on his way out of Portland. He just recently filled up his gas tank about 15 miles from here. If we leave now, we may be able to cut him off before he hits the freeway. The central and east precincts have just been dispatched to respond.”

 

Hotch feels the welcome rush of adrenaline hit his senses at the opportunity of hunting down an UNSUB, one of the best reasons to be a crime fighter—at least as long as they are able to help a victim and put an end to any kind of violence. He watches his teammates eagerly glance at one another, then burst into action. Morgan drops the file onto the rolling table still holding Hotch’s untouched trays of food, and the three mobile agents assemble themselves to prepare to leave. His mood wanes—of course, he’s stuck here in the hospital and must observe the chase from over on the sidelines.

 

Emily’s expression implores him for his direction, but there is something else that unsettles him, something he can’t, or won’t, identify. Her wide, obsidian eyes latch onto his and he remembers her being there when he had come around from the depths of the anesthesia, her concern and gentle humor, then the implicit, unconfirmed thing between them that had developed while he hadn’t been looking. He’d been too distracted by everything around them—the job, his home life, the tragedy surrounding him—to really pay close enough attention.

 

Now it is at the forefront, and what should seem obvious to a man who prides himself as a seasoned, quick as a whip profiler is the failure to notice the growing attachment he’d developed with Emily. He probably should have recognized the change in their dynamic after his attack and Haley’s murder—she’d insisted on escorting him to and from work and home—but he’d been too wrapped up in his own head to see it. It is apparent to him now, but he no longer knows how to act around her without making the air between them bizarre and riddled with uneasiness. He has an inkling that she’s dealing with a similar conviction.

 

Hotch squirms a bit, then gestures at them, tearing his gaze from the dark-haired stunner to avoid any scrutiny from the other men. “Go.”

 

They turn to leave, but Emily lingers a few curious seconds. Hotch forces himself to be still and regard her need for some kind of intimate exchange just for the two of them. She waits for the men to disappear before speaking. “Aaron,” she begins, and his mouth hangs agape, unsure of what to say in return. She inches up to him and finally takes his free hand, squeezing gently. A tiny smile lights up her face and he lies there, captivated. “We’ll be back.”

 

He nods, a responsive smile in place. “Stay safe.”

 

She bites her bottom lip, seeming hesitant, and then leans over and lightly kisses his temple, allowing her mouth to brush the skin for a moment longer before pulling away and moving from his side and out of the room. Hotch can only stare at the doorway, dumbstruck, her kiss having left a permanent print on the flesh next to his brow.


End file.
